


A Garden For Two

by glass_knife



Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: Angst, Arguing, Blood and Gore, Connor Deserves Happiness, Good Dog Sumo (Detroit: Become Human), Hanahaki Disease, He had a tricycle, M/M, Mentioned Cole Anderson, Misunderstandings, Other, Poor Connor, Sad Hank Anderson, Schizophrenia, Wanted to have a happy ending but nevermind, Writing an alternative fic with happy ending though, Yeah I'm really sorry
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-22
Updated: 2019-01-24
Packaged: 2019-08-05 23:59:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 3
Words: 19,296
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16377548
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/glass_knife/pseuds/glass_knife
Summary: An all-consuming desire for him. An argument that breaks it apart. Flowers that live beneath love riddled flesh.Hank and Connor have an argument about Cole; things go too far.





	1. Return to Me

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is my first Hanahaki fic so I hope I do it justice (I changed a couple things about how the disease works (to spice things up) so I hope you don't mind)  
> -Veriko

**May 15th, 2039**

 

A bland bouquet of daisies sits atop Hank’s desk.

 

Each yellow core turned putrid grey, each petal falling to the floor. The bullpen is consumed by the smell of rot, the flowers death long overdue. Hank holds them dear all the same.

 

The grey-green water swirls in the sloppily glued together vase, untouched and thus unchanged. A once white card sits beneath the bone-white pottery, now scuffed and grey. Perfect CyberLife Sans, each word and dainty letter. Until the very end, until the picture-perfect signature. The hand of the writer must have shaken then… leaving two ink drops to rest beside a once beloved name.

 

_To you, from Connor._

 

What a lovely sentiment. An icy tear rolls down Hank’s face. He wipes it off right then and there.

 

**March 5th, 2039**

 

“Hank please listen to me! I simply want to help,” The android’s pleading voice only angered the Lieutenant further. Salad, soup, workouts, protein shakes and thrown out Black Lamb, he listened to every word up until now; but this was something he simply couldn’t give up.

 

The tiny red tricycle in front of the two men was the original source of their dispute, found in the long-forgotten shed at the very back of Hank’s yard during clean up. Now dragged into their ugly kitchen, the small bike looked completely out of place, a rift between two worlds that didn't belong.

 

A pearly white plate was the first victim of Hank’s grizzly hands. Picking it up and smashing it to the ground, the older man watched as bits of glass sprayed all over their small living space like a shotgun shell. His nostrils flared and he saw red, anger turning him into a puppet on strings.

 

“Well look at me you little **prick**  and listen  **real close**. This shit isn’t helping,” another plate flew to the floor, this one shattering into an even more satisfying firework of white. Something pierced Hank’s beard-covered cheek and he could see Connor panic at the sight of blood trickling down his chin, his LED a wheel of flame. Hank didn’t bother wiping it off, instead opting for watching the small droplet fall to the floor, leaving a tiny red circle next to his big toe.

 

“Hank please just let me help you,” the android took a calculated step towards the man in front of him which caused another loud  _crack_ to boom across the house, leaving two more bits of discount china sitting in Hank’s palm.

 

“Well, how about you let me do what I want-”  _crack,_ the first of two plates zoomed to the ground with a wild _whirr_ , landing right beside Connor’s leg, causing a few unfortunate shards of old, white, glass to pierce his synthetic thigh. He didn’t even flinch as blue blood trickled down his foot and onto the hardwood floor, “Hank please-”  _crack_ - _stomp,_ another bit of pottery flew to the ground, this one landing with a mighty _pop_ that slithered down the walls of the hallway, reverberating against them. Soon enough Hank realized that he had no more plates to throw, so the furious man moved towards the microwave, anger overtaking the few remaining rational parts of his brain “Hank, please, calm down”  _smash-_ the patched up hole in their (newly-fixed) window now had a friend, Connor was holding his wrist… it was infuriating “Hank you don’t have to do this-"  _slam_  "I just wanted things to get better-”  _whine,_ Sumo was scratching at the bedroom door, his whining audible through the thick wood. What had he done… it was too late to stop when  _“_ Shut up you  **machin-** ”...  _silence._

 

The statement was out of Hank’s mouth before he could regret it, and even though he didn’t get to finish his appalling sentence, the older man was sure both of them were well aware of the word that was meant to slither from his lips.

 

Connor’s hand flew from Hank’s wrist as if he’d been burned, his breathing labored, his brown eyes the size of dinner plates. His LED was a blaring amber ring that covered the kitchen in blood red highlights, which streaked across every surface as the flaming wheel pulsed. His expression alone made all the blood rush from Hank's face. Dark eyes, and angry brows, every artificial muscle on his face contracting, leaving an expression of betrayal atop his usually soft features. The sight of him made Hank's heart stop, if only for a second, and the older man moved towards the terrified android only to get promptly slapped away.

 

A sob broke through the deathly silence that cascaded over their living room and Hank tried to reach for Connor once more, yet to no avail. The ‘droid was up and running with tears in his eyes before the Lieutenant could even get a word out, dashing to their front door and slamming it closed behind him without a second thought.

 

At that Hank simply fell to his knees, still reaching towards the place where Connor once stood with a weak hand, ignoring the pain of glass cutting through his old skin, the sight of that amber LED permanently seared into his mind.

 

_What the fuck have I done._

 

Blood rushed to his adrenaline filled brain, and he passed out before he could come up with an answer, landing face first onto his dirty, glass-covered floor.

 

**March 6th, 2039**

 

_Drip. Drop. Drip. Drop._

 

The numbness that welcomed Hank as he awoke was dreadful. A tiny box that crushed his every bone and muscle with how strongly it gripped him. A feeling so close to death it was hard to fathom. A ghostly presence that made Hank shiver. Someone behind him, crisp and everpresent. He had never felt so cold, yet it was spring.

 

The sun's golden rays danced across the kitchen, glowing tints of yellow and orange as they filled the room with color. The curtains drifted in the balmy breeze that filtered in through the hole in their window- _his_ window. _Ow_. The tricycle reflected the light with its metal surface, leaving little beams of red shooting across the hallway. Too breathtaking to express yet so out of place it hurt. Everything hurt. The cuts on Hank's face and knees didn't seem to matter as pain engulfed him, eating up every inch of him that it could get to. 

 

He had finally ruined the only thing holding him here. 

 

After years of floating with no anchor keeping him down, he had found him. A man that had looked past his calloused nature and had given him a chance. A person that tolerated his snide remarks and kept him alive with generous doses of optimism. Somebody he could depend on. A light at the end of the tunnel. A being that kept him away from the darkness that his mind slipped into all too often. And he lost every ounce of that for what? A tricycle that once belonged to his son, one that passed away 7 years ago. A thing he should have gotten rid of long before Connor was even there to ask about it. 

 

Hank felt numb.

 

He felt frozen and distant as he rose to his feet and rubbed at the cut on his cheek, not feeling even an inkling of pain at the gesture. He felt like a ghost as he watched himself dance around his kitchen's cupboards in panicky search for the things that would soon end his life, his soul floating behind him, leaving cold breaths on the back of his neck. He was weak, a man floating away to his demise, finally accepting the fate that was made for him so many years ago, nobody there to bring him back down. He was- was he ready? Hank had pondered this moment many times, and he had always envisioned that he would still be weak if Connor ever disappeared, that he wouldn't be able to do the thing he was planning on right now. Why did he always have to be right? His mind jumped to answer the question even before he could ask it.

 

_He wouldn't want you dead. Look at what he's done to protect you. He's only been gone for a day. Maybe he'll come back? **He'll come back for you.**_

 

On and on, it made Hank sick to see himself this desperate for a reason to live, even though there seemed to be nothing holding him down. Had Connor really been the only tether to reality he had? He had known that he depended on the android a little too much, but he never seemed to notice the true extent of his attachment. _His attachment-_

 

Hank closed his eyes and took a few deep breaths, the once frozen air turning warm in his lungs. His fingertips still itched for a way to end it all, his mind still reeling with regret, but the thought of redemption kept him from ripping apart. A whine brought his attention to his left and the older man saw his giant Saint Bernard in the corner of his eye. _Right, Sumo._ It hadn't occurred to Hank that he had things that still depended on him to survive, his fear taking priority over any other idea that could have crossed his mind. He had probably overreacted anyway. Connor would surely be back in a day, just like always. The two of them would talk it out, reconcile, and end this thing soon enough.

 

Hank would have to stay alive for those who needed him... he would wait for Connor to come back.

He just had to wait for a day.

Just for another day.

 

**March 7th, 2039**

 

_Just for another day._

He popped open a beer can, chugging its content in one go.

 

**March 8th, 2039**

 

_Just_

Whiskey burned down his throat, he was at a bar. He looked at the bartender and screamed.

 

**March 9th, 2039**

 

_For_

"Another!"

 

**March 10th, 2039**

 

_Another_

Cheers filled the room and Hank felt dizzy.

 

**March 11th, 2039**

 

_Day_

He was...

 

**March 15th, 2039**

 

Hank wakes up in a drunken rage, the memory of Connor fresh on his mind and the taste of his name stuck to his tongue.

 

Another bad dream shakes the Lieutenant to his wakeful state. This has become routine. Getting drunk on the couch (or maybe in a bar) to stupid sitcoms, falling asleep, only to wake up and cry back to a restless slumber. It’s bittersweet in a way, making him float only to bring him further down into the black abyss of grief and self-hatred that he’s been stewing in for the past few days. It feels like karma. There's no sign of Connor at all.

 

This wasn't the first time they argued, not the first time by far, yet this dispute was far worse than any other. Hank's already stuck it through situations like this more than once, arguing with Connor only to have the android run away for a day or two but this time it seemed final... a last straw for the 'droid. In all honesty, it felt somewhat appropriate, Hank's never done anything right in his life so why would this be an exception, hell, the man would blame Connor if he left forever, it was only fair after all.

 

Yet Hank knows he's still a greedy bastard, wanting things he was never meant to have, things he could never _deserve_ to have; so, he’s been writing Connor messages on the daily, using his number to assault the android with an endless stream of SMS’s in case he doesn’t have service. He still grabs his phone each time it buzzes, every instance leaving him more disappointed than the last. The android never reads or replies to anything Hank writes him, and right now he’s racked up over 700 messages. A tear stings the corner of Hank's eye and the man struggles to keep it down, hoping his will is strong enough to hold him together through the pain. It's not even close to strong enough. The tears are cold and bitter as they bite their way down his face, clawing a hole in his gut which he desperately craves to fill. He writes Fowler a lazy email in an attempt to cover the void. He asks about being put on unpaid leave. This is the first time in the past week he’s even bothered to inform the captain of his absence at all.

 

At this point in time, he doesn’t respect the man enough to sign his name at the end, feeling a jolt adrenaline at the rudeness of his gesture. He doesn’t even bother with reading the mail twice, instead choosing to send it off without a second thought. Fowler’s a pliant guy so Hank doesn’t worry, instead choosing to focus on finishing the warm beer that’s nestled in his left hand. 

 

The TV radiates a welcoming blue hue which pulls Hank in. In the end, the older man falls asleep in half an hour to the sound of old 90s movies with his lukewarm beverage leaking onto his old, stinky shirt.

 

**March 16th, 2039**

 

Fowler doesn’t approve his unpaid leave.

 

It’s weird that Hank assumed anything else in the first place; after all, he’s skipped out on a week of work even though he was well aware that Fowler wouldn’t take too kindly to him after that. He’s also keenly aware that if he doesn’t show up soon he’ll probably lose his job. Does his job still matter? Yes, yes it does. Sadly, his status as Lieutenant is one of the few "constants" he’s been able to uphold in his life, and as much as he despises the fact that he’ll have to return to his memory filled office he knows it’s for his own good.

 

He will go back to work, and he will stare at the desk of the man he betrayed. Of the man he cared about and the one he hurt. He will have to look at his trinkets and the perfect paperwork that probably still sits atop his partner's table, and not let himself die. He will have to stay positive because it’s only been a week, and he might still come back. Hank hopes he’ll come back, and he hopes his hope is strong enough to hold him together until the time that he does. When did he become so sure?

 

It doesn’t matter. Hank knows that he’ll do anything to rid himself of the guilt he bears right now. Just for another chance to see his face and say sorry. Just for him… and for others too.

 

**March 17th, 2039**

 

Hank knows he has to go to work but that doesn't make the process any easier. Getting out of the house is complete and utter hell. Crawling into the car is a similar experience. Looking at anything or anyone is just as bad as the other two.

 

Everything just fucking sings Connor’s name, every bit of his life tied so closely around the man that he lived with a week and a half ago. 1,376 SMS messages and not one response. Hank tries not to cry as he starts the engine, having a go at staying strong as he looks at his (now empty) passenger seat. Yet as he backs out of his driveway he makes the regrettable mistake of turning on the radio… it’s Knights of the Black Death. That’s all it takes to break him. Now he sits in his car, bent over and officially delirious with tears, only two meters away from where he originally parked his car.

 

He doesn’t make it to work. But he will tomorrow.

Just for another day. Just for another look. Just to get rid of guilt, and for no other reason at all.

 

He will make it tomorrow.

 

**March 18th, 2039**

 

Opening his eyes makes him regret the promise.

 

Besides the fact that his eyes are basically swollen shut as a result of yesterday's meltdown, the first thing he sees is his damn Saint Bernard right on top of his face. The dog makes him think of… well, everything makes him think of him… but that’s not the issue. After days of unbearable pain, Hank has learned to deal with the whispers that say the ‘droid’s name. The real problems arise when Hank notes something else when he sees the fact that his dog’s snout is covered in something blue. At first, it seems unrecognizable but he soon enough Hank identifies it as blood… Connor’s blood… the thirium that he made Connor leak because of a fucking old plate. Such a powerful being hurt by something so inconsequential, there's an irony to the statement Hank can't explain; _why did he take it without returning the favor-_

 

Cleaning the dog’s snout takes a lot more out of Hank than expected, and with no alcohol on hand to calm him down, he simply weeps his way to normalcy. Getting into the car is every bit as hard as before, all of it tainted by the memories of Connor that seem seared into Hank’s brain. That amber LED flashes through his vision and he hits his head against the steering wheel causing his car to let out a long and loud  _honk_. He doesn’t want to forget anything, but right now remembering is tough on him too.

 

He doesn’t even _dare_ look at the radio.

 

\---

 

Opening the door to the precinct with a guttural  _creek_. Feeling a warm tear stream down his face. Wiping it off so nobody sees. All of it those things were what the Lieutenant expected as he came into the bullpen, but the flowers atop his desk are something he knew nothing about. At first, he looks to Gavin, then Chris, yet both men sigh and look down… this can’t be good.

 

No way. He didn’t miss Connor's return, did he? Did the android come to work only to see Hank’s absence and disappear? All of this cycles through the Lieutenant’s mind as he sprints towards that bushel of daisies that sit atop his desk, framed by a half-transparent white vase with a note sitting beneath it.

 

He nearly knocks the gentle flowers over with the speed at which he lifts the vase and extracts the tiny, neatly folded, paper. His fingers shake as he peels it open.

 

_“To you, from Connor”_

 

Is all it says.

 

It isn't quite disappointing, but it isn't enough either. Hank has been ravenous for him, starving for any suggestion of his return and the words only make him hungrier for-

Hank turns to stone as he looks around only to find the ducked heads of his many co-workers, none of them looking confident enough to as much as glance at the older man. Greif covers Hank like a nylon blanket and he stares down at the tiny note in disbelief. He wants to tear it to shreds but instead, he presses it to his chest, hugging it tight before putting it back under the vase. He looks around once more feeling scrutinized, and soon enough he finds himself dashing out of the bullpen, a miserable ache overtaking his body.

 

2,769 SMS messages… not one response. Just another day. Just for him... not for him.

 

Hank gets into the car and drives, ignoring the weird sting at the base of his chest.

 

\---

 

It’s only 2 pm so Jimmy’s bar is as good as closed.

 

The door is still open, and the “no androids allowed” sticker has long since disappeared off of the establishment. It was all because of Hank too. After causing many a bar fight, he finally persuaded Jimmy to peel the damn tag off the door. It made Connor so chipper every bruise and broken knuckle became worth it. His chest stings at the thought.

 

Hank shoulders the door open, none too gently, and topples over a bar stool in an attempt to sit down. The fluorescent lights of the bar tint every surface an unnatural yellow, yet tonight the usually appealing sight just makes Hank twice as miserable. He can’t see clearly because of how dazed he feels, his old brain filled to the brim with an overwhelming melancholy that makes his gaze swim. Jimmy looks him up and down with minimal concern. He’s seen Hank in worse condition.

 

“What are you doing here Hank?” The bartender offers, his tone, unimpressed. The man has aged well for his occupation, dually so if you considering Hank's (near to daily) presence. Today though, Jimmy doesn't seem to be doing so well, Hank notes, because he seems more snippy than usual. In all honesty, the older man doesn't give a flying fuck.

 

“Whiskey,” he murmurs back, getting a pointed look in return.

 

“Hank, what happened?” He can hear the carelessness in each word,  _he doesn’t actually give a shit,_ Hank knows it's true.

 

“Whiskey Jimmy, please,” Is all the older man offers in response at which the bartender lets out a loud sigh.

 

With a light ruckus and a pop of a bottle cap, the sound of liquor being poured fills Hank’s ears. There’s a thunk and soon after that, a drink is slid in front of his face. Relaxation eases into the Lieutenant's system, and his muscles ease out of tension he didn't know he was holding, making him feel twice as woozy.

 

“Don’t drink too much for a change,” the bitter words fly from Jimmy’s mouth with no disregard for Hank’s situation, stinging the older man quite a bit, but there’s already a drink there to calm his nerves. He takes the cool glass in his hand, swirling the alcohol gently before tapping the table and gulping the whiskey in one smooth motion. It burns down his throat in the most pleasant way, causing a shiver to travel up Hank's spine. He places the glass on the bar with a somewhat loud _thunk_ and asks Jimmy for more. The man doesn't look surprised.

 

Hank stays at the establishment until he’s too drunk to talk and Jimmy offers to get him a cab (which Hank pointedly refuses), choosing instead to get into his olds-mobile, hoping he gets into a fatal car crash.

 

The streets are a hazy blur of lights and people, every color fusing together as Hank's mind pulses, trying it's best to comprehend the incomprehensible. By the time he’s home, it’s only around 6 but none of that seems important. He knows it's time. Walking to the kitchen counter he reaches for his gun and places a bullet in each slot. He won't lose this time, he **can't** lose this time. Spinning the barrel and watching the silver colors melt together in his eyes Hank realizes it’s kind of pretty, in the worst sense of the word. His hands feel weak and he gulps down the bile rising in his throat. He's nervous.

 

Just for a… no more excuses.

 

He sighs and places the barrel in his mouth, tasting pleasantly tangy metal just as Sumo walks in. He’s carrying a daisy in his slobbery mouth.

 

Hank feels like he’s been punched in the gut, all air flying out of him at an alarming rate. He gasps for oxygen as his vision goes black, a ruthless pain appearing in his abdomen. Soon enough he finds himself crouched over, coughing… coughing and coughing. He hacks and sputters until a tiny, soft, petal falls from his lips as he plummets to his knees. Sumo rushes towards him offering the man the dainty flower that's stuck in his jaws, not one petal damaged by the giant dog's teeth. Blood coats Hank's fingers, red sticky and gross. He looks at Sumo-

sobs fill the house for hours after that...

 

\---

 

He stays like that for a week straight, every day blurring together with the next. Work and home life turn into one, blending into each other and forming an endless loop. He tries to find it, a beginning an end or a middle to the madness but each time the answer moves further, solutions always too far from his fingertips to grasp. Time loses meaning as Hank gets stuck in one emotion after another, a slap to the face that turns to a warm caress. A biting wind that becomes a balmy breeze. A red LED- None of it makes any sense but for whatever reason, Hank feels it doesn’t have to. Everything strung together by memories of him, like constellations that he hung, bright stars in the evening sky, everything squished too close to recognize and compartmentalize. He doesn’t mind the mess, but he does at the same time. 

 

He drinks beer until he’s out of beer, then he walks Sumo to the convenience store to get more, staying in a constant state of drunk disarray. He doesn’t bother contacting Fowler, ignoring the fact it might cost him his job. He tries to come to Jimmy’s but gets kicked out every time. He knows what the answer is but chooses to stay in denial as he tells himself that other things keep him tied to this world but deep down he knows. Cold, warm, colorful yet ugly all at once, every touch that lingered too long and every gaze that never had an explanation. Toes touching, smiles and tiny cowlicks, he had been a fool, a blind fool. Falling and falling and falling until it all makes perfect sense, he-

 

A daisy blooms in Hank’s lungs, the man falls asleep all the same.

 

**March 25th, 2039**

 

By the morning he’s ready to admit it.

 

Every room, wall and tiny particle of dust calls for him. The memory of his existence is stuck to every wrinkle and pore that Hank has. His name makes Hank’s ears ring like it's the only thing he was meant to hear. He is everything and nothing at all. Indescribably bright in his infinite majesty. But he’s gone. Yet the idea of seeing him again makes life worth living, and the thought that he was offered just a tiny piece of perfection is enough to keep him going.

 

Daisies.

 

Gentle, little bits of flora. Plain looking plants that everyone knows about. Hank's new favorite flowers, ones that he will undoubtedly adore til’ the day he dies. Ones that will cover his grave when he does. That’s what his grave will say. Daisies.

 

A dog with a slobbery mouth, a vase filled by yellow and white, a man with silver hair and a blue circle that spins, spins and  _spins._   ** _Amber_** **.** The memory burns Hank like a hot iron, a color that once had no meaning terrifies him now, the idea of it making his mind slow and his blood freeze. He had caused him pain and the color had been his misery, every bit of it, compressed into one little light show. Hank shakes the dreadful thoughts out of his head before he can fall back to-

 

How did he not notice sooner? It’s all too much to describe, and it makes a hot sunrise glow from the inside of Hank’s chest. It stings just a little, in a most pleasant way. He coughs again. How long has he felt this way, and for how much time has he ignored it? How did he dare not want to experience something so perfect all the time? Regret crushes Hank like an empty beer can because… what if he never comes back? The older man has never felt this way before, not with his ex-wife, nor with anyone else that he’s cared for so he wants to protect the feelings he has with all his might. Soon enough an idea flies into mind like a majestic white bird. He opens his computer and places an order. He knows exactly what he wants.

 

He’s in love with Connor.

So he orders daisies.

 

**March 26th, 2039**

 

Spending all weekend on something like this feels entirely too stupid. Yet at the same time, it all feels so right. Every crevice of the house is overtaken by his gift, every bit of floor and ceiling now calls his name. Hank can finally see what he feels so deep inside, and it satisfies him to a level he never expected.

 

Every part of his home is covered in daisies.

 

Every millimeter of every surface is completely engulfed in the gentle white flower and now everything truly feels like home. Sumo’s flower is framed right above the TV, still covered in the giant dog’s slobber, still too picture perfect to describe. Hank doesn’t like knowing that the flowers will wilt, or that he and his Saint Bernard will undoubtedly destroy quite a few with their feet, but the act of being able to look at his love makes it worth the loses. He can feel himself burn from the inside out with a deep and overwhelming sense of satisfaction. His throat itches and he scratches it roughly. It feels like a star, glowing within him, boiling hot to the extent where it doesn’t feel hot anymore. It prickles, but he pays it no mind, the feeling of it too good to suppress.

 

He’s sure it shows on his face too, cause when Sumo wakes up in the morning, the dog doesn’t whine at him like he usually would. It’s a good sign.

 

Soon enough, Hank finds himself somewhat at peace with the idea of going to work the next day. It’s the first day he’s felt happy, despite his endless grief, and the older man enjoys the calmness before it can disappear.............

 

_Hack-cough._

A weed runs up his throat, creeping it's way forward, before settling at the base of his esophagus.

 

**March 27th, 2039**

 

Unfortunately, peace doesn’t last long.

 

Because as soon as he opens the bullpen he’s met by a sea of emotion. A tsunami wave that flies over him, eating him alive. It takes remembering every daisy within his home to not burst into tears. The flowers atop his desk have all wilted.

 

Each plant is tinged a strange combination of green and white, none of them looking anywhere close to healthy. Each stem is turning greyer and the water beneath them is turning greener. The smell is repugnant too. Rot mixed with not so fresh flora. It tears Hank apart with grief, reminding him about how much time has passed since- he covers his gut wretching cough with a red-white handkerchief.

 

He sends Connor a picture, message number 5,768. Still no reply, he’s spent way too much money on these but he doesn’t have it in him to stop.

 

He hears someone call his name. Whipping around turns out to be pretty hard on his lungs.

 

“Hank,” it’s Reed, this is bound to be bad “Hank I-uh, I see Connor got you flowers, and well I- I know you guys argued but they’re you know starting to um-" the man takes a break to summon some courage and Hank braces himself "smell a lot so if you wouldn’t mind throwing them-” he’s stopped before he can get another word out.

 

“ **NO**  ” Hank roars the word with all the might in his voice making Reed topple over in shock. The phrase alone empties Hank of air in one go, but he manages to stay standing, not wanting to fall when every eye in the bullpen is on him. He feels so angry he might as well burst, yet to his surprise, it seems that his outburnst even got Fowler to pay attention. Hank can't help but watch patiently as Reed rises from the floor, only to shove the detective back down with surgical precision. He won’t be able to do things like this for much longer so he enjoys them while he can. Reed lands right on his tailbone and wheezes in pain, rubbing at the spot where he collided with the floor. Someone has the gall to make an  _ooo_ noise in the background, which Hank pointedly ignores, instead deciding to stare at the young detective currently scrambling around on the floor. The implications of the younger man’s words cause a red-hot rage to bubble up inside Hank, the force of the feeling doubling every second he thinks of it. He rushes at Reed again, ready to fight but there’s a firm hand on his shoulder before he can continue to act on his violent urges.

 

It’s Fowler. He looks concerned. And before Hank can ask why he’s being told to go home. He doesn’t fight it, instead choosing to give Reed one last fury-filled stare as he leaves the precinct. The detective looks like he’s about to piss his pants and instead of the exit, Hank rushes to the bathroom. His whole hand is covered in petals and rust colored blood.

 

They smile at him as he washes them off.

 

\---

 

The drive home is mostly uneventful. Besides the constant ache that his old car brings him there seem to be no complications on his way home. Hank watches TV on his daisy covered couch and feeds Sumo using his daisy covered bowl.

 

It’s nearly 10:30 when Hank begins to panic, realization hitting him like a truck.

 

He left the flowers unsupervised in an office filled with people who are probably desperate to get rid of the precious bouquet. Sure, Reed got his ass handed to him in front of everyone, but Hank's sure someone else probably has the balls to mess with his floral arrangement just for the fun of it.  _What if someone threw them away?_ The thought alone has Hank feeling crushed. He wheezes as the flowers in his lungs rush to escape him. He holds them down. First, he has to know.

 

Rushing to the car and speeding through town, Hank finds himself running four red light on his way to the office. He slams the door open so hard it nearly flies off the hinges, his rage giving him a boost of energy which helps him fight his cough. None of it matters as much as the rotting flora atop his desk. He rushes through the lobby at full speed, jamming his ID into every door at record speed, only to find that there are no longer flowers decorating his table. Hank's heart stops for a second...

 

**Badum-Badum.**

**Hank flips his shit.**

 

He yells at every object and person as he rushes around the bullpen in desperate search of the plants. He ignores the trickle of blood that runs from his mouth and down to his chin as he screams at anyone who comes near him. He upends every trash can in the entire office and covers the floor in smelly garbage, ignoring the fact that he must look like a total ass to the cleaning staff. He searches through drawers and shelves, papers and breakrooms, only to find his bunched up bouquet sitting under Tina Chen’s desk. He’s going to kill her as soon as he sees that  **bitch’s**  smug little face.

 

For now, though, he decides to focus on putting the flowers back where they belong. A gentle  _swoosh_ and they’re back in their rightful place, sitting in murky water, covered by a pearly-white vase. Hank feels overjoyed already but recognizes that he can’t leave the plants alone any longer. It takes a few minutes but he gets an idea. By the end of the night, the older man finds himself hunkered down next to his desk, curled up on his rickety work chair. He feels content even though it hurts to sit.

Nobody touches him for the whole night, not even the Roombas.

 

\---

 

"Connor, Connor no!"

 

Hank heaves a labored breath to keep going, his blood running cold as the android dashes from him. The garden they stand in bursts with color and the daisies in Hank's lungs writhe, causing pain to shoot through his abdomen. Catching a glimpse of Connor's eyes is all it takes for the memories to overflow, the sight of amber amber amber too much to bear. The android is crying and saying words Hank can't comprehend. He begs Hank to leave. The Lieutenant watches Connor's silhouette run into the crimson horizon, gazing at him until he's out of sight. He falls to the ground.

 

**Blood.**

 

\---

 

_Ba-dum ba-dum, ba-dum ba-dum._

 

Hank's heart hammers in his ears, aching to escape from his ribcage. A nightmare, he shouldn't be surprised but he is. After Connor's disappearance, the older man had been struggling to get a good night's sleep, feeling worry eat away at him each time he closed his eyes. Tonight though it seems his wakeful state could be chalked up to something else. The petals claw at Hank's throat, pleading for freedom. He doesn't want to oblige their wishes.

 

He's had to calm himself from a nightmare before, but never like this. The bullpen is so different from his daisy covered house. Every wall feels cold and unwelcoming, dually so at night. Yet for whatever reason, this doesn't effect Hank as much as the sight of icy blue eyes staring at him from a barely lit monitor. _Shit._

 

The older man had never had problems with androids looking alike. That was until Connor disappeared. Now looking at Nines has become a terrible curse, the android looking starkly familiar, yet not at all similar to his brunette brother. Hank ignores the ache in his chest as he watches Nines rise from his chair and walks towards Hank, a glum grimace plastered across his face.

 

"Hello Hank," he whispers as he comes closer, opening his palm to reveal- Hank's heart drops. A small note in hand... all of a sudden the petals clogging Hank’s throat turn to dust, and the weeds wiggle their way back down to his lungs. 

 

“From him,” the tall android murmurs, words barely audible even in the grave silent bullpen. Hank can’t help but tremble as he reaches for the note. Nines stays silent as Hank grabs the paper out of his hands, looking towards him with the slightest bit of curiosity.

 

 _“I’m sorry”_ is all it says. Disappointment feels like a slap to the face. A tear rolls down Hank's face and he doesn’t bother hiding it. The petals rush back to his windpipe and he lets out a gentle, barely audible wheeze.

 

“Does he know what he’s causing me?” Hank asks, his voice a barren whisper as he coughs. He can feel Nines scan him, but he ignores the sensation, choosing to focus on smothering his retching instead. The 'droid's eyes go wide for a second as his LED spins yellow. Hank understands right then and there... he knows.

 

“I don’t have a clue,” is all Nines has to say in response, his voice sounding more bitter than before. The android looks torn, but only for a second.

 

The two stare at each other in melancholy silence before Hank turns around and walks back to his seat. He doesn’t want to watch the daisies run down the drain today so instead, he puts the card right beneath his other gifts, resting beneath the bone-white vase.

 

The flowers grow eyes in the night.

 

**March 28th, 2039**

 

Hank’s back is incredibly sore, but the sight of Tina makes all the pain rush out of him like a gunshot.  _It’s time for revenge,_ his mind helpfully supplies.

 

The older man rises from his chair as he glares at the younger officer across the bullpen, she doesn’t seem to note his presence.  _Good, this is going to be fun._ Hank’s long legs get him all the way to Tina in about 8 steps and as soon and as he’s next to her he swings his arm towards her, in what is meant to be a devastating hook.

 

He lands it square in her face.

 

A guttural  _crack_ sounds out through the precinct, and Tina is propelled backward with the power of Hank’s punch. The young woman has panic in her eyes as she lands against the wall all while clutching her shattered nose. A bit of drywall crumbles next to her, sprinkling her with white flakes. She scrambles to stand up as blood streams down her face, deciding to move her hand to get some leverage. It turns out to be a fatal mistake as it causes the amount of liquid that’s spurting out of her nose to immediately to double. She grunts in pain. The skin on Hank’s knuckles is torn. He trudges forward anyway.

 

The panic in Tina’s face multiplies as she watches Hank move towards her, putting an arm over herself to try and prevent the older man’s next blow from being as devastating as his first. Her other arm smudges blood on the walls of the precinct, and the sight of her misery satisfies something deep inside the older man. Fury burns in Hank’s eyes, however, he is stopped by a tall figure rushing in front of the younger officer. He looks up only to be met with a pair of knowing, pool blue eyes. The sight of him in broad daylight scares Hank to the bone. It plunges deep within the older man, grafting itself inside the marrow. He’s Connor, but not Connor at the same time. So similar you would confuse them, yet so inexplicably different the idea of doing so makes Hank sick.

 

“I promise not to report you if you stop right now Lieutenant,” his voice alone causes bile to rise in Hank’s throat. He doubles over and clutches his mouth in an attempt to hold the flowers in. The android looks hurt at first but soon understanding blooms atop his face. His LED spins yellow for a couple seconds before returning to a calm, sea blue. He offers Hank a second to calm down before speaking.

 

“I didn’t mean to remind you of him, Hank,” saying his name is what does him in, so Hank rushes towards the nearest trash can and barfs like there’s no tomorrow. Blood and flora mix together in front of Hank’s eyes and he kicks in Tina’s direction as the young officer tries to pat his back, deciding against resisting when Nines tries to do so as well. The android offers Hank a handkerchief which the Lieutenant promptly denies, taking out his own. Nines eyes widen substantially at the sight of it, probably doing a scan only to find that the red pigment covering the once white cloth is blood. The older man looks up at him with a lopsided smile and pats the android’s head in reassurance. He wouldn't understand. 

 

Hank decides to stay at work til three, but gets absolutely nothing done. Instead, he chooses to stare at his beloved bouquet. It’s worth losing his job for anyway.

 

Just another day. Just another look. I’ll do anything for you.

Nines stares at Hank for the rest of the day, his LED spinning yellow as he does.

 

**March 29th, 2039**

 

Hank wakes up and sends message 7,899. For whatever reason, he still feels determined. This is really doing a number on his bank account though.

 

Deciding to sleep home had been hard on the Lieutenant but after endless reassurance from both Nines and Fowler, he decided to give it a shot. He hasn't regretted it so far. The daisies at the precinct are by far Hank's favorite, but they have been changing in the past few weeks. Growing smiles and eyes, staring and giggling. Hank still loves them dearly but they have begun to scare him. The daisies at home still seem okay, so he looks at them instead. The flowers still look fresh, even as the days pass, the sight of them making Hank hopeful.

 

_Should I still be hopeful?_

 

Dought doesn’t feel right when you’re this far in but for whatever reason today it just swallows him whole. After seeing Nines twice yesterday Connor’s face is engraved in his mind which causes unpleasant thoughts to cycle through him.

 

_Maybe there is no point anymore? Maybe he won’t come back? What if he doesn’t come back? Why did he apologize… what if he’s dead?_

 

**_What if he’s dead?_ **

 

**March 30th, 2039**

 

_He._

 

**March 31st, 2039**

 

_Can’t._

 

**April 1st, 2039**

 

_Be._

 

**April 2nd, 2039**

 

 **_Dead_** **.**

 

**April 3rd, 2039**

 

It’s all Hank can think about. When he wakes up in a cold sweat in the middle of the night, when he walks Sumo or looks at his daisy covered home, it’s everywhere. At the bottom of his blood covered toilet bowl, stuck deep inside his lungs, growing into a painful mass that he doesn't want to stop. **_Stop._**

 

What if he’s the fool? What if Connor just left his house to find a quiet place to put a gun to his head? What if that’s what he did to him? What will he do if he finds him dead in an alley? He knows what he’ll do, he’ll take his gun and pierce a hole right through his brain without a second thought. The idea makes him shrivel up regardless.

 

It’s about to be April, and he’s still not returned. Even as each eve grows warmer he doesn’t respond, doesn't look back. Hank walks down an empty street, gazing at the small flowers that bloom from the buds covering every tree and flower of Detroit. He would enjoy this if Connor was still here. He tightens his grip on Sumo’s leash and takes out his phone next to a bus stop, every message unread… 9,130. He types out another one and as he sends it, only to hear a faint buzz come from behind him the very second he does.

 

Everything stops. He turns his head towards the sound so quickly he gets whiplash.

 

 _Maybe, maybe._   _ **Please.**_

 

He wants to see those pretty eyes and those full lips, that tiny cowlick and that picture perfect hair. He wants to say he’s sorry, so damn sorry but instead of that, he’s met with a terrified pair of hazel eyeballs that belong to a man that Hank doesn’t seem recognize. He glares at the Lieutenant, concern covering every inch of his features as he looks the older man up and down, tightening his grip on his leather jacket as he clutches his phone. He's wearing a grey hat too, one that he slides down his forehead in a feverish manner. The hope that bubbled in Hank's chest turns poisonous making him feel sick once more. He purses his lips, not letting the flowers burst through them, and turns around, deciding to go home right then and there, passing by the man while looking to the ground. The convenience store just down the street lays long forgotten as Hank walks back home, only to recognize he has no alcohol to keep him out of the darkness of his mind.

 

 _Maybe it's time..._ the seductive thought offers as he opens the door with jittery hands.

 _Maybe I'm overdue…_ the voices whisper, soft and sweet.

_No... Connor wouldn't want this._

Just one more day… one more day for you.

 

\---

 

Yet once again that day turns to a week, and that week turns to a month, and soon enough Hank doesn’t know why he comes to work or why his home is covered in daisies.

 

When he looks in the mirror he doesn’t recognize his face and he loses track of time more and more each day. Blurring and mushing together, it feels like it takes centuries instead of seconds to come back to reality, everything slowly becoming part of a huge, mind-numbing routine. Wake up, vomit, go to work, vomit, drink, vomit, sleep, **wake up,**  vomit. Soon enough the sting in his chest is a part of that too. After a while, it gets replaced by an unbearable ache, which becomes a distant predecessor to a constantly a bloody mouth. Every day and hour his name fills his ears and the flowers grow bigger, and the weeds grow stronger. Hank buys clippers but they don't help. He rips the daisies out but they keep growing. There's a flower sitting on top of his tongue, a leaf at the roof of his mouth and a stem tickling his throat. He can feel the flowers in his brain itching as they-

 

**Arhdsjfsdhsdhfksdshds.**

**Blood, blood, blood, bglood, fghood, dhfjsks.**

Hank coughs until he can't breathe, white nouse ringing loud in his head.

 

 _Why am I alive?_ He asks his red-stained hands, as he looks in the mirror at 2 am.

 

 _Just one more day._ The daisies in his sink respond with a gleeful smile.

 

**May 15th, 2039**

 

Bloodshot eyes, a runny nose, chapped lips and blood under the curl of his fingernails. He hasn’t had a haircut in too long, his silver locks reaching to the edge of his shoulders, tickling them slightly. He’s overdue, he’s late, old product that's wasting space. He knows today will be his last. He’s well aware that he’s held onto hope for too long. Each daisy rotting atop his desk is Connor, he knows that for sure. It's finally time to see him again.

 

The last of him Hank has, a solemn reminder of what he lost that evening, over a tricycle that once belonged to another beloved name. Yet here he sits in his office, his mind filled with fog that shapes into oddly familiar words,  _just for a day, just for a look, just for him, only for him._ They swirl around his brain like a merry go round, ever present and comforting in their existence, wasting time as he walks towards his demise. He's wanted this for so long. They make of his head tickles, a stem growing beneath his hair.

 

Hank hasn't had the gall to touch a single petal since they fell from their stem, choosing to let fate decide where they go. _Yet today is so different,_ the flowers in the vase whisper, smiling at Hank as they pull the older man's hands towards them. A petal in his fingers, dust on his desk. He holds the putrid remain in his palm, twisting it ever so slightly watching it turn to grime. Desperate, Hank picks up another, trying to be gentler, but gets the same result. He does so again and again until all the petals that aren’t on the floor turn to tiny bits of dust which in no way resemble what they used to be. The flowers look upset. Hank tells them not to stare. They giggle and fury brews within the Lieutenant, doubling with each petal he destroys, growing and evolving like a tropical storm in ripe climate. Each bit of flora he picks up, he kills, every reminder of his beloved that is left. His vision grows redder by the second. Hank tries to breathe, and petals fall from his mouth. Chris is _staring, staring, **staring** and Hank just wanted to love him, he loves him so much he doesn't understand, why did this happen, how did he lose him, he had adored him he had he had he had - CONNOR.  **BAM**_. Frustration gets the better of him and soon all Hank can do now is pound his fists against his desk in unadulterated rage.

 

The violent action causes the vase to dance tiny circles around itself as it holds on, trying not to fall.  _Slam-_ the vase is on the very edge of Hank's desk swirling with grace, holding onto hope- _wham-_ but he notices it all a little too late. The glass makes one more loop around itself before it flies off his table and shatters to tiny bits. The bullpen is dead silent, you could hear a pin drop. He can hear the daisies  _giggle. **STOP.**_

 

Hank’s heart ceases to beat for a brief second, dropping to the floor and shattering right next to the vase. He doesn’t have the strength to cough anymore, so he falls to his knees and tries to pick up his beloved flowers with trembling hands, tears streaming down his face. This is every nightmare rolled into one, the last memory of him lost to the wind. Most of the plants he touches fall apart, but some survive the gentle shake of the older man’s hands. The ones that don't die laughing. Hank looks around, despair evident on his features. Most people look away as he stares at their faces in panic. A pair of steely blue eyes does not. Nines is the first one at his side, crouching next to him and plucking each petal off the ground with the gentlest of touches. When he's here the flowers do not giggle. Hank watches Nines gesture and soon enough he’s joined by Reed and Tina, the two detectives trembling as they come closer to Hank, still afraid of his unpredictability. He realizes he can't hear when Reed asks him a question. The flowers laugh once more, filling his head with inaudible sound. Chris and Ben come around too, Chris looking fearful as he walks over. He mouths something Hank doesn't understand, his ears plugged by flora. There's a handkerchief on is palm and a hand on his shoulder. Fowler's here too. He gestures to Hank's mouth and the older man wipes it mindlessly. The daisies are in hysterics. _Laughter laughter laughter,_ **HAHAHAHAHAHAHA.**

 

**_BLOOD._ **

 

On every bit of the cloth, covering every inch of his palm. He's never seen so much of it at once and he can't seem to look away. Hank doesn't notice as time bends and stretches, but by the time the flowers let him go, he sees that basically everyone has joined him on the floor. Every officer that he can’t name, everybody sitting beside him and gently picking up his flowers whilst aiding him with bits of his broken vase. They wordlessly tolerate the stench of the moldy water, and ignore Hank’s tears, looking away from the **blood**  that trickles down his face without a word **.**  Some even try to scoop up the rotten water with coffee cups that they must have taken from the breakroom. In the end, half of Hank’s flowers survive the incident but the fact that so many wanted to help makes Hank’s thoughts a little less suicidal. He still needs to rush to the bathroom to rid himself of the flowers at the base of his mouth. The daisies stay silent just for a second, seemingly satisfied.

 

In the end, he comes home at 8 in the afternoon, later than he’s ever returned before. The whole precinct helps him glue together the vase, and he chooses to spend the rest of the day staring at flecks of rot swirl around in the glass of his bone-white pottery. Deep down he knows he’s prolonging the inevitable. Blood streams down his chin and petals fly to the floor...

 

The flowers want more.

He doesn't know how much he can give them.

 

\---

 

The door to the precinct creaks open and Hank doesn’t bother turning around.

 

A tap on his shoulder, a fiery kiss on his lips, cinnamon eyes and tears running down faces. Hugs and touches he will never forget and sorry’s he will never stop saying. He’ll hold him and he’ll never let go.

 

 _I saw him again_. Just for a day. Not for a day.  _I won’t let him go._

 

“Hank-” Connor sobs out his name, and they meet eyes. They don’t need to explain things, all they do is hold hands so tight Hank gets bruises. He doesn’t care in the slightest. The office cheers when they walk out (all except Reed who gags only to get a shoe thrown at his face) and Hank ignores it when Fowler yells at him for leaving the office early.

 

They don’t speak of the daisies that cover each inch of their house and they don’t talk about what their kiss makes them. They both know what they feel and so they just look at each other until Hank has to blink, and they keep looking even after that.

 

\---

 

Hank’s covered in sweat as he wakes up, all of it trickling down his forehead and covering his entire body with a nasty sheen of stickiness…

_Ah… of course._

 

How could something like that be real? Sadness wraps around him and he lays atop his daisy covered covers to get away from its cold grip. But it’s too late. Blood trickles from his mouth and he doesn’t have to cough to get the petals to come out. All of it makes him angry. The flowers seem angry too.

 

Before Hank has time to think of his actions he’s standing up and ripping the flowers off his bed one by one, throwing them to the floor and stomping the ground that’s covered with them. Tearing and throwing and screaming as an unstoppable fire burns in his lungs and as flower stems keep him from closing his mouth. Sumo scratching the other side of the door brings Hank back to reality. He quickly wipes the blood off his chin with his shirt, throwing it in the hamper to prevent the dog from freaking out. Ignoring the mess he’s made, he walks towards the scratching, letting the dog in. The Saint Bernard whines, apparently scared by the sounds of Hank’s outburst, but his head soon whips around to the hamper. Hank doesn’t have it in him to stop the dog before it’s too late. The Saint Bernard empties the entire thing onto itself and makes a pained noise at the sight of the red liquid covering Hank's T-shirt. It almost feels like he knows. Maybe he does. Looking towards the pooch doesn’t make the situation better and the Lieutenant can’t help but feel bad for the gentle giant. 

 

 _It's time,_ says the voice in Hank's head.

He knows what he has to do right then and there, the flower's command too forceful to ignore. Rushing from his bedroom he walks past his dog, stomping his way towards the thing that cursed him to the misery that he’s now encased in. It’s hard to move as quickly as he wants to, the flora in his lungs impairing each of his actions to an embarrassing extent. It only makes Hank hungrier for revenge. He rushes the tricycle at full speed and slams his body against it, hearing a satisfying  _creek_ as the metal bends beneath him. He had loved Cole so much, with every part of his being, but it’s finally time to forget. He throws the bike through the window without a second thought, ignoring the fear his action probably caused his neighbors.

 

 ** _It's time,_** the flowers repeat, more forceful this time.

 

Hank turns around. As he walks back to his bedroom he looks at the flowerless patch atop his bedsheets and feels a small flame of distress dance in his gut.  _Why does it matter?_ he thinks soon enough to ignore the burn of grief. A glance in Sumo’s direction is all the permission the dog needs to climb atop the covers in an attempt to join Hank in bed. It’s a cute sight, one that the older man doesn’t mind dying to. However, he manages to ruin the precious moment by crying into the dog’s soft fur as he gets lulled into restless asleep, mouth perpetually open by the flowers that cover it.

 

**_It's time._ **

 

As he closes his eyes he sees a piercing blue light shines through his window. He doesn't want to make the flora within him mad but he has to know. Hope eats at Hank's insides as he opens his eyes only to find the blue shine disappear as quickly as it emerged.  _Trick of the eye,_ the older man thinks quickly, appeasing the flowers back into a calm state.

 

A shoe without laces, a cat without whiskers, a weak old man, a puppet on strings, flora in my lungs-

 

One more night to find you.

I will die for you.

 

**_Time._ **

 

\---

 

Connor stands outside Hank's window, fear running through every man-made vein of his plastic body.  _Will he forgive me? What if he doesn’t?_ He has to know regardless, the forget me nots at the base of his thirium pump are going to end him either way. 

 

He gets a running start before tackling his way in through the window, forcing glass to shoot everywhere.

He lands on soft daisies which are sticky with blood.

Hank doesn’t open his eyes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AAA, IT HURTS! I love Hank and I hate to hurt him but I must, for the sake of the story.
> 
> I just finished editing the fic for the last time, added about 2k words which I think really made the story more sensible. I should be updating pretty frequently after I'm done with my short vacation, but if you really enjoyed this fic maybe read some of my other fics?
> 
> I have a short one-shot called Small Gifts for Smaller Incidents (short, sweet and fluffy) 2k words  
> And I have a big angsty boy called A Breath Of Useless Air (ongoing, edgy, assumed dead fic) 13k words
> 
> Edit: I'm having some family/school troubles right now so I probably won't be able to write for the next two weeks. Yes I know that's a long while but sadly I can do nothing about the time since I have a bunch of deadlines and no time for hobbies. I'm very sorry. I'll try my best to post as soon as I can.
> 
> Check out my Tumblr if you have questions or just want to talk!  
> https://glass-knife.tumblr.com/  
> -Veriko


	2. Definitions

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know this is a super mean move but I wanted at least SOME kind of update because the next two weeks of my life are going to be SUPER busy. This describes how MY hanahaki disease is different from other hanahaki diseases (and yes, this information will CERTAINLY be prominent later).
> 
> I hope you guys aren't mad, and I'm trying my best to fit writing into my schedule (it's been kind of tough though)

**March 27th, 2039**

 

han·a·ha·ki di·ease

\ˈhanə'hakə dɪˈziːz/

 

noun

a parasitic disease which forces its victim to regurgitate/cough up flower petals when they suffer from unrequited love. The illness can only be cured through surgical removal, however, any existing romantic feelings are also removed with the infection. Some report schizophrenia, dementia, and loss of hearing/sight as a side effect of this condition. The disease is lethal, and there are 86 known cases in which it is considered the main cause of death. The remains of the victim become plantlife after death, the parasite using its host as fertilizer for vegetation. Cases involving androids are yet to be discovered.

 

\---

 

Hank slams the book closed with a loud _wham_ , throwing it across the room in frustration. It flies and hits a daisy covered wall with a dull _thunk._  All of it makes Hank mad. His hands curl into fists which desperately itch for booze. He tugs on his silver locks and lets bitter tears stream down his face instead.

_He doesn't want to die._

 

But this feeling is too good to give up. A fire in his chest, his name stuck on repeat in his mind, a sunset of adrenaline passing through his body filling him with neverending bliss as it makes his toes curl. His love has always been a blessing and a curse. The ones he loved have always been the same as his emotion.

A picture perfect son, with eyes so gleeful they outshined a star. A bright-minded kid, who he could never have.

A light blue LED, with chocolate brown eyes and a heart of gold. He could never have him either could he?

 

It doesn't matter, not one bit, because he won't stop now.

He can't stop now.

 

**May 15th, 2039**

 

_Han% &2k do@5esn't open h37is eyes#&8._

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you have questions or want some extra content I have a tumblr:  
> glass-knife.tumblr.com
> 
> Again I'm super sorry and I'm trying my best to finish the next chapter!


	3. Agony, forget me not

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This fic was supposed to be an "angst with a happy ending" fic but my finger slipped,  
> Whoops I guess

**March 5th, 2039**

Time slowed as Connor’s fingers slipped from Hank’s wrist. His synthetic skin ached as it caught fire, tearing his circuitry to shreds as it stung his insides. Hank’s words were so cold Connor felt chills skitter up his spine as the rest of him melted with fury he could not contain. Hank reached for him again and Connor’s body reacted without question, laying a rough smack on the older man’s wrist without the young android’s consent. He felt dizzy as icy tears rolled down his face and before he knew it he was running.

Ba-dum ba-dum.

His thirium pump raced in his ears, loud and ever-present with each step he took as he dashed to the door.

Ba-dum ba-dum.

His plastic body begged for an end to the misery as he slammed the door shut.

Ba-dum ba-dum.

He was not in control by the time he rushed into the street.

Merely a puppet on strings, fully controlled by instinct, as he raced through the old alleys of Hank’s neighborhood. Knowing every bend and turn like the palm of his hand, he dashed as the hole in his chest expanded, leaving an all-consuming black hole in its wake. The vacuum was painful, a ball of needles that rolled in his chest with each step he took. His dizzy mind was overflowing with stimulation and his plastic body still felt hot with rage. The balmy breeze and the dim lights were too much to look at as he dashed towards an unknown destination. Blue and grey hues of the evening sky mixed together, clouds and speckles of rain melting into a dark veil that consumed the heavens. All of this contrasted by the warm glow of yellow and red coming from every house in view, kitchens and living rooms filled to the brim with overjoyed voices of people savoring their afternoon. Connor couldn’t help but feel jealousy prickle deep in his vires.

**_9:15 pm_ **

**_9:33 pm_ **

**_10:40 pm_ **

It was dusk by the time Connor forced himself to stop running, and as he looked around he realized... he didn’t know where he was. Rain speckled his face and his hair clung to his forehead, his out of place cowlick going down to his eyes. Agitated, he wiped the hair off. A grand fence stood before him, preventing him from continuing his mad dash to nowhere. He looked around, searching for clues as he forced himself to calm down.

Ugly, cracked drywall covered the walls of the many houses that were speckled along the street where he stood. Every building looked rotten with age, original color lost to time. There was a tiny cottage-like home that seemed squished by two huge (and clearly newly built) apartment complexes, standing out against the pristine houses it resided by. Connor walked closer, trying to investigate, yet a noise startled him back into focus and he watches a warm blue light color the inside of one of the window panes of the small house he had relocated to. A quick scan revealed the identity of the man behind the glass. An old household model that seemed to own the establishment he sat in. The android unhooked the window’s lock and opened it with a quiet _creek_. He ignored Connor’s presence so the detective returned the favor. Yet as the young ‘droid looked out onto the empty street realization hit him like a truck.

 

Out in the cold at night with only the clothes on his back, an android after the revolution that still has his LED... he really didn’t think this through did he? But he didn’t have time to. Hank’s words were always something he could never account for, even with the millions of possibilities constantly swirling around in his wires. The man was always a mystery, an intriguing puzzle Connor never seemed to solve, answers to questions always slipping out of sight before he could reach them. He liked the rush. _Not today though-_

 

_Bang_

 

A gunshot rung clear through the silence of the night, cutting through Connor's thought's like a sharp blade.

 

Connor’s vision glitched - _ERROR_ \- as his thirium pump skipped a beat and he felt something rough tug on at his collar. Without a word, the stranger in the window was grabbing him by the neck and dragging him into his home through the open window. Connor landed on the creaky floor with a _thunk,_ and heard a _shush_ to his right. His vision swam as he watched the curtains flail as the wind beat them mercilessly. Connor scurried under a table for cover, making sure he didn’t make a single noise. The footsteps of the perps were getting louder, his windpipe closed and his fingertips shook. He saw a blonde head rush towards the kitchen, and silver metal shine in his right hand.

 

He was running before he could think.

 

_“Connor, stay there.”_

Simon’s gentle voice played in his head and he stopped dead in his tracks.

 

_Crash_

 

A glass bottle flew in through the window and landed on the kitchen floor, shards hitting the wall and leaving dents in the mint-colored wallpaper. Blue eyes disappeared from view, a quiet _click_ sounding out from the kitchen. Connor hid until the outside was silent, ignoring the spew of slurs coming from the window.

 

Simon came out a while after that, yet the metal object he once had was not with him any longer.

 

**_11:15_ **

 

“What are you doing here anyway?” Simon’s probing had only begun a few minutes ago but it already felt overbearing. All of it was still too raw, sitting deep within Connor’s chest, like a tight pulsing lump, not willing to leave. Every emotion got stuck to him, glued to the palm of his hand, sticky and blue with his blood. So painful and new. Yet the android in front of Connor was one of his closest friends so he felt rude for being so hurt by his gentle curiosity.

He had been there for every other incident in Connor’s newly started life, the two of them being nearly as close as Connor and Hank, in a way he and the Lieutenant could never be. Discovering a world of emotion that was given to both of them just a short while ago was something Connor held dear. Simon was always there to listen when Hank was too drunk or hurt to do so, and for that Connor appreciated him. He tried to return the favor when he could but those incidents were few and far apart, yet somehow Simon didn't seem to mind. Still, an indirect response felt more appropriate in the moment.

“I had a-” he coughed to force the words from his throat “discussion with Hank,” this would not be the first time the two of them argued, and certainly not the first time Connor left the Lieutenant to stew, but tonight was by far the most delicate of all their disagreements and deep down Connor knew the raw nature of it was probably visible to Simon. He still didn’t want to elaborate, even as the android in front of him engulfed him with his caring, pool blue eyes.

“Well you know we always have room for you, right? We were renovating anyway, in preparation for someone to move in so it would be no trouble- ” Simon was trotting on ice and he knew it “Though maybe you need time-”

“Yeah that would be good,” he really didn’t want to talk about it anymore “A comfortable arrangement for both of us I assume,” he offered Simon a light smile to comfort him, though he felt it was a flimsy facade for his feelings.

It still worked.

“Yes,” the android in front of him responded, too quickly, his eyes crescent moons filled with crinkled up aquamarine “You would be right to assume so.”

After a dignified silence and a couple of awkward laughs, Simon left Connor to his own devices, saying that he could stay for as long as was necessary. Connor couldn’t believe the android fell for his act. Was it customary to feel hurt when others couldn't see through your lies? He waved off the thought, he had wanted to hide his feelings in the first place so this reaction was illogical. He should stop being illogical, it only ever got him hurt.

 

**HANK**

 

A blister of pain shot through Connor as the notification appeared, and he rushed to sit down before he could topple over, choosing an old beige couch as his resting place for the night. He should have slept on that beige couch for the rest of the night, amidst the gentle shine of a half-full moon. Yet instead, he let his room fill with sobs, all of them escaping from his artificial lungs, none of them feeling like his own.

 

**March 6th, 2039**

 

He got no rest.

Not **one** moment re **ma** ined where his mind didn’t race.

He should have come back by now, Hank was surely expe **ctin** g it. Would he be mad if he returned? Would they be on talking terms?

Surely Hank would understand that Connor made a mistake, surely he would be able to forgive… yet deep down Connor knew the Lieutenant was an irrational man. A drunk that got hurt by things that wouldn’t damage most. A glaze covered his eyes as he stared at the dented wall. **H** is fingers jittered.

Standing up **a** nd picked up a broom, he stared down at the glass that still covered the floor. A small stream of blood ran down his leg, and he looked down at the gash on his thigh.

_Is it possible for androids to fe **el n** umb? _

**-ERROR-**

The blood that Hank caused, the pain he created while in pain himself. Was that justification? Did that make him right? Connor quickly covered the hole in his leg with a stray band-aid he found on the counter.

He couldn’t ta **ke hi** s eyes of the dent in the wall, or the shimmering glass that covered the floor. _How could someone hate someone else for merely existing?_ He wondered. _Does Hank feel that way now that I’ve ruined it all?_ It was a thought he did not expect, yet the potential reality **of the** statement hit him harder then he could have ever imagined. So instead of thinking, instead of perceiving the world with a len **se of fear over** his eyes, Connor spent the whole day sweeping the floor, using his thousand processors for simple tasks as the rest of his mind caught fire.

 

\---

 

A freezing wind bit at his face, speckles of ice crashing into his eyes, cutting into his skin, turning it raw and blue.

The blooming garden was now filled by cold, punishment for feelings he was never meant to have. The blue panel shone like a star from the distance, and Connor forced his numb legs to walk towards it. Step by step, he was getting closer, hearing the crunch of snow underneath his feet. Inch by inch, he was moving towards the light, moving towards his freedom.

A silhouette came into view. A bulky brown coat, of a man who was taller than him by a couple inches. Silvery hair and a colorful shirt. Connor stopped dead in his tracks, the cold air around him unable to compare to the ice that erupted in his chest. He hunched over from the force of the blow.

"Connor," Hank's voice was cyanide, so poisonous he could taste each bitter note from where he was standing "get out." the words were stone, heavy, cold and too hard to lift. The statement had uncanny finality that Connor could not dispute. He looked to the river instead of Hank's eyes, yet the man's face was there too.

He turned to the trees only to be met with cool blue stares from each leaf and trunk. Whipping his head around to the snow, trying to escape- eyes, turning it to the stones, looking at them through the frozen river- eyes, on his palms and his legs, on his jacket and shoes- eyes. Everywhere, cold and angry, his azure gaze covered it all, not letting Connor free of their dominant gaze. He looked to the place the silhouette once stood only to find it empty, gone with the panel that was meant to save him. 

He began to scream before he comprehended his actions.

A trickle of blue blood ran do _wn_ _his c# &3hin93#(_

 

_-ERROR-_

 

**05:56 am**

 

Connor **wo** ke up screaming.

Loa **d and clear his voice rang** through the s **m** all home as he sat up from the couch. Cold and blood curdling, it had sounded lik **e he had** been in asylum for years, tortured and beat to produce the agonizin **g s** ound. And it terrified him.

This was not his first dream, not the first by far.

Most of them had just been him, in a clear white **space, whe** re he sat and did nothing. Some had recounted his **d%** ay, and others had merged memories together to com **e up** with beautiful fiction. None were like **this. Where he** was afraid, not in control, fighting for life.

 

That involved **_Hank_.**

 

W **here the ma** n left him, alon **e and m** iserable.

 **Where the man m** ade him feel that way in the first place.

 

Yet as Connor note **d the overwhelming nature of his dream, an** d sorted his feelings into logical thoughts, he saw another thing that **see** med to be present for the first time.

 **A** trickle of blue blood with seemingly no cause, a tiny blue line that streamed from h **is mout** h and ran right down his chin where it pooled into a tiny droplet.

...

He wiped it away and returned to his tho **ug^3hts.**

**March 7th, 2039**

 

Simon came to check on him the very next morning, an abrupt knocking cutting through the home. The sound startled the young detective and he tumbled to the floor, hitting it sluggishly. This was new, he was rarely startled.

Coming to the door and opening it slowly he saw the worried face of... not Simon at the door.

A blue and green eye met his gaze and he fell back a few feet, startled by the intensity of the glare. Markus always scared Connor. The brunette was consistently inspired by the determination of the android, yet sometimes it felt too strong, to the point where Connor wondered if Markus's ideas sometimes brought on death. It must have shown on his face because Markus's features softened right away.

"Hello Connor," he spoke, his voice staying calm and collected like always, unwavering, much like his expression.

"Hi Markus," Connor knew he couldn't match his confidence, even on his best days.

"I heard something occurred last night, and I was wondering if you were alright..." his voice trailed off as his left eye focused on something in his peripheral, a human covered from head to toe in tattoos. One of the men who threw the glass bottles in the window.

_Was it him_

Markus's voice rang through his head, startling and intimate in a way Connor didn't enjoy.

_No, Markus, everything is alright_

He spoke quickly, hoping to end the awkward exchange as quickly as possible. The android focused his gaze on Connor for a little too long and the younger man felt himself shrink away.

 _Are you sure,_  he spoke, slow and steady _are you sure, you're okay?_

 _I'm okay!_ Connor responded too quickly, meeting the heterochromatic eyes of the man who was talking in his head.

At that Markus let out a long sigh and ended their link, continuing to watch the tattoo-covered man out of the corner of his eye.

"Alright, stay safe then, and tell me if you need anything-"

"I will... I promise."

 

And just like that, he was alone, watching Markus walk away from his porch.

The s **oftwar** e insta^ _4bilities w **ere**_ back as  & **48s** oon as he close **d** 5the _d_ oor.

 

 **H** e start **^*4ed the sof36tware re** bo2o **ted t _he sec$on_ d he was on the couch.**

 

**March 16th, 2039**

 

9 days,

86 errors,

Connor woke up in a cold-blooded panic. 

 

Everything was moving too slowly, too much time to adore the edges and bumps of existence. His body felt dry and his mouth tickled, the sensation impossible to remember. Numbers ticked down on the right of his vision, a loving reminder of death. Blue blue blue blue, a quick reboot of the eyes made them halfway functional. Adjustment to darkness took 3.4 seconds... there was blood everywhere. An elegant finger rose to his mouth only to turn entirely azure. He ran his palm along the couch only to find every inch of it sticky with-

The once beige walls were covered with the bright blue substance. 

Two of his panels emitted a soft glow.

 

_Scanning_

_RK800 #313 248 317 - 51-Thirium leak._

_35 seconds until shutdown._

 

Connor dashed to the mirror.

His legs crumpled under the weight.

Arms would have to do.

 

Gripping the sticky floorboards and drowning in liquid, his mouth filled to the brim with thirium that once lived within his plastic body. He scratched at the floor, nails catching on the cracks in the wood, propelling him forward. The tile of the bathroom was harder to grip but he-

He made it to the mirror.

*** &%#*(%&3ERROR86423(*%$(*7539**

**March 17th, 2039**

 

Simon was a lousy repairman.

 

The android's mind and body too tender for the gruff task of fixing someone's body, yet Connor knew he was the only one trustworthy enough to do it. The slight tremble in his fingers wasn't helping the case though. The brunette watched as the tiny "android repair kit" screwdriver jumped from Simon's hand leaving a new string of thirium to leak from the place it once stood.

Simon let out a weak sob. A silence fell over the room.

...

"Connor we have to tell Markus," the toe-headed android's voice shook as he whispered the sentence, letting it drop like a rock in a pond. Connor let another pause settle, enjoying the way the android in front of him squirmed.

"You know that that's something I'm not willing to do Simon," he let his tone turn demanding.

"But we both know it's for the better good," 

"I would have to disagree," he let anger seep into his every word, luckily Simon was smart enough to take the warning.

 

Soon enough he was picking up the screwdriver, but his fingers shook more than last time.

 

**5:36 pm**

 

He needed a gift. 

Before he came home he needed a present.

 

A true expression of the sorrow he felt for his previous actions. A way to show  **H &4k** he was sorry.

\---

All the flower shops in the nearby area were closed, their glass protected flora out of reach, yet not out of sight. Connor's elbow was strong enough to break through the front panel of the store, yet he felt a tiny inkling of pity at such a rude gesture. He left a couple hundred as accommodation money.

 

The store was dark, but warm, the scent of fresh grass filling it to the brim. The flowers sat in small glass containers, leaves sticking out of the airholes their owner had drilled. The walls were a muted yellow, inviting the buyer to stay. Connor wanted to stay. The android's cinnamon eyes danced from flower to flower not settling on anyone in particular, meanings too bizarre or contorted to represent what he felt. Yet he kept looking and looking, searching for something that would make it all right, fix all he did.

 

His eyes found some daisies.

The bouquet fits snugly under his left arm.

 

**March 18th, 2039**

 

Every bit of the floor was covered in crumpled up paper, sentences the size of seas encrypted on each failed note. A card was a necessary component of an apology, yet as the time ticked by Connor realized that he knows what to do. No need for flowery language, no need for barriers through words, it would be honesty he gifted the Lieutenant not a bunch of optimistic predictions covered in festive ribbon. Bringing the pen to paper one last time his fingers shook as they waltzed around the napkin-sized page. Two drops of ink fell from the nib. He couldn't bear to move his hand.

 

He was gifting his soul.

 

 

**03:30 am**

 

The blocky nature of the precinct had always made Connor feel a keen sense of discomfort. Design based in aggression, created to make those who were punished feel fear and misery. Yet today as he peers through the glass door his eyes well up with tears. He knows he doesn't need a keycard, his own hand more than enough to get into the building, but a sense of fondness blooms within his chest as he stares in through the glass. He likes the burn that settles around his thirium pump, the likes the agitation in his mouth, it all feels right so he just stares and stares and stares until he sees it's 5:45.

A gush of panic takes over his senses and he smashes his open palm against the door. A gentle beep sounds out and he's inside, picking out a vase that he hopes is appropriate. He only finds one, a bone white bit of porcelain, smooth and round and absolutely perfect. His fingers itch with excitement and his legs turn to spaghetti as he walks towards  **^* &an*'s **desk.

 _Why can't I say his name_ _-_

The desk looks the same as when he left, messy paperwork about cases old and new covering every millimeter of available space. The vase fits so perfectly among the disarray, the card right beneath it an ideal finishing touch.

Connor's brown eyes turn moist, yet when he swipes the tears away he's met with blue blood. But right before he starts a scan the sound of a creaking door brings him back to reality. Turning around blue eyes meet his own. Nines stands there, tall, gloomy and seemingly unsurprised... but then his gaze shifts towards the streak of blood on Connor's cheek and everything seems to shift. The rhythm feels offbeat.

"What happened Connor," his voice is seemingly monotone but his deviancy lets emotions through the cracks "why are you back?" the voice behind the question is distressed. 

"I had to do something," covering the flowers with his back is a difficult but not impossible task.

"Why are you bleeding?" Nines runs his eyes up and down the older android's torso, looking for any further damages he can spot. Connor doesn't grant his question a response.

"Connor why are you bleeding?" the younger droid's supposed apathy fades away to reveal his panic, the older man already knows what's coming.

...

A deadly silence looms over the room... Connor waits for the results of the scan to come in.

"Alright." Nines voice sounds dead, hoarse and torn to shreds, the single word the only thing he's able to speak.

 

Walking out of the bullpen on brisk feet Connor begins his run as soon as he sees a passing car. He meets eyes with Gavin Reed, spotting Chris's figure in the backseat. The two men look startled, but only for a second, their stone-faced facades back on quick enough that most humans wouldn't see them disappear in the first place.

"Where you runnin' tin can?" Reed snarls out of the open window, a huge grin spread over his crooked face. Giving the man an answer truly feels like a waste of breath so Connor forgoes it, making sure to make continuing his dash home a top priority on his list of tasks.

 

**6:15 pm**

 

 

Hi **s mo** &%th is full of bl#3*d, & **t*he frid** ge is EMp&Ty. No **bl*4e blood t** o 7spare*. RUNN7ING4 O4UT.

**8389*$^$*^484643* &%&#%64984**

 

**He wants to think of his NAME.**

**HE WANTS TO SPEAK IT.**

" **H# &$^***"he ga&49rgle **s em** pty7 no*ise.

" **HA^ &#N$***" his voice box spasms with the effort.

" **H%7ANK** " again

" **HA &$%*N)(**" once more

" ***($ &*^**" one

" **$^*(^$*$76^)*^)$439847395** *(&T469" more

" **& $(*749HA458**" time

" **HANK** " the scream is all it takes.

 

A firework explodes in his heart, a realization so strong errors flood his vision. Going blind, going deaf, going mute at the same time. No speaking allowed, not one sound to be heard, nothing to be seen. Connor drops to the floor and _feels_ , feels like never before. Every inch of his form crawls, tiny itches spreading over synthetic skin, palms scratching along a cool chassis, a burning so inconceivable, so unimaginable in its force turns Connor's processor off.

 

Simon's blue eyes sit right in front of his face as he wakes. Tears run down the blond androids cheeks. Connor tries to lift his hand but he can't, trying the other ends in failure as well. His head twists to the right and he coughs, loud and strong as he empties his lungs. A forget-me-not drops near his eyes, he stares as it floats in his thirium.

Turning off seems like the best option.

 

**_Shutdown Initiated._ **

_I'm in love with Hank._

 

**March 19th, 2039**

 

The shutdown doesn't last that long.

Connor fights the cool waves that engulf him as they beg him to go to sleep. A bright, white buzz shoots hot against his fingers as he crawls, resurfacing above the frozen waters of his mind. His eyes unstick and his eyelashes flutter to life. Yet he wakes up to no blood.

 

Simon's fearful face appears in front of his own, a fuzzy silhouette of a man Connor doesn't recognize; his features are taught it dismay, yet his eyes speak of no disapproval. Connor doesn't know this him yet he reaches for him anyway, only to feel a smooth hand pin him down. It's Markus, he knows that without a doubt. 

"Traitor," he spits the word and Simon shrivels up.

"Get out," Markus responds, cold voice so new to Connor's ears.

 

Rising from the cold linoleum he doesn't know where he will shelter but somehow he doesn't seem to care. Simon offers him a hand but he only waves it off. His legs are stiff and heavy from the shutdown and his synthetic muscles strain to pull their weight. He limps towards the door and stumbles; a panicked gasp tears through the room behind him... it's the start of something bigger. A tone of agitation slithers into the room and thus the rage begins. Two voices dance around each other, jabbing when they can, a whirlpool of unsaid frustration taking over every syllable. Connor's feet shuffle closer to the door and the words disappear from his metallic ears. They don't notice he's gone, don't hear the wooden door creak or his footsteps down the worn-down oak stairs; they just argue, and Connor finds his way.

 

**10:01 pm**

 

He sits outside a worn down house like a bum. He listens to the click-clack of formal shoes and sees the angry stares, and somewhere deep inside a fury burns but he has enough self-control to smother it. His fingers grow itchy and his breaths turn shallow. He watches a breeze pass through the trees. He knows that he'll be home soon, but he's nervous about how he'll react. He waits another hour until the footsteps grow rare and the stares turn tired. A pair of boots can be heard in the distance, some sneakers squeaking by their side. He's too tired to look up but he knows it's him.  The boots stop. It has to be him.

"Is that the tin can?" the snarly voice of Gavin Reed cuts through the icy silence like a knife. Connor feels Nines's eyes burrow into him.

"Hey did you get an error or something? Is that Connor or not?" 2 more seconds until the full scan is complete, Connor waits patiently until it ends.

"You listenin' to me asshat? Is that Conn-"

"Yes Reed," the coldness of his voice settles in the bones of everyone who listens "that's Connor."

 

**01:56 am**

 

The coffee table sits cold under his open palm, the rough edges of the wood daggers in his flesh. Nines doesn't speak a word, and Reed knows better than to break a silence as overbearing as this one. The android's bright blue eyes turn paler with each moment, his straight-back position unbroken by the rage that bounces in his wires. It's so easy to see each mechanism that powers him when he's like this, each path his mind takes to find a solution to an unsolvable issue. Gavin's been sitting on the edge of the couch for at least an hour, unmoving just like his partner, but as the minutes tick by Connor can see his posture slacken and his muscles grow tired. Nines break the silence with the sweetest voice he can muster.

  
"You should go to bed honey, you must be tired," the tightness in each too sweat syllable is icky and it sends a shiver racing down Connor's back. Reed looks just as scared as the android and so instead of arguing just silently walks towards the bedroom.

"Are you su-"

"Absolutely sweety, just go to sleep alright?" his azure eyes get swallowed by his too wide pupils, overfocused from trying to burn a hole in the coffee table he rests his palms on. Connor watches Gavin's adam's apple bounce as he swallows, gaze frozen in terror. He watches the man disappear behind the door and starts to count to ten. Nines's head snaps in his direction by the time he reaches 4. He doesn't speak, or move, just stares, the blue of his eyes taking back the land that seconds prior belonged to his over-dilated pupil. They both know that Gavin is asleep by now.

" **How could you.** " his voice is barely audible, but every letter feels like a dagger to the stomach.

" **How _could_ you.** " the second time is still a million times worse.

"What was I supposed to do?" he tries to sound sorry but he's not sure he is "I couldn't control it, we argued and I left and then it just began and I didn't want to stop it"

He hears Nines let out a humorless chuckle "Well, of course, everythi **ng** has to always be about you doesn't it? Didn't you know I would b **e** worried, couldn't you just tell me where you went?"

The anger sizzles in his fuses "I was with Simon. I was **safe." he pick** s at the wood of the ta **ble "I did** n't want to worry you and I knew no one else cared"

A fist lands on the table with a ** _thu* &d_  **"Yo **u know they all care! I car7e, Ree** d cares, even _**he**_ ca^res; he wouldn't want this for you, I know th(at fo **r a fact!"**

It whip **s ins** i&de his every cab **le, ready** to escape **"You haven't heard h*4is anger Nines, he called me a machin)e"**

 **"HE WAS SORRY"** it claws at his organs

 **"NO HE WASN'T"** it breaks down his insides

**"STOP LYING TO YOURSELF"**

**he lets them go.**

 

The forget-me-nots rush from his mouth, a torrent, a wild tornado, a horrifying beast that claws and rips and tears his every inch. He feels them leave him, like bees leaving the hive, they push from him in an endless stream, flying away like gorgeous butterflies from a cacoon. A stream of blood so grand and blue erupts deep from his throat, he yells in pain, searing and white and beautiful in inexplicable ways. A million eternities pass by in seconds as he shakes and shakes and shakes and shakes until he can't shake any longer. After he lives and dies a million times he feels two piston hands atop his too cold shoulder blades. Mechanical and tough in their fearful grip he pulls so close to them with his remaining strength. He sees Reed crying in the corner of his blurry eyes. It all stops just about then.

 

**1:57 am**

 

Nines's fingers slip from Connor body. He hears his feet thud loud against the floor. His eyes are blank and his LED is white. Gavin sobs in the corner. Blood, blue and sticky covers every surface of the kitchen. Flowers, white and cerulean stuck to his own pale skin. He wants to scrub it all away but he knows there's something more important. 

"Gavin, get the medkit." his voice is so monotone it scares him as soon as it leaves his lips. Reed still stands there, stiff as a board. "I said get the **fucking** medkit Reed." his teeth are grit so hard the words barely escape his mouth. He sees the fear melt from his lover's face and watches Gavin get back on his feet. He rushes to the bathroom, eyes searching for the kit. A merciless scan appears in the left corner of his vision, but his eyes dare not read it. He can hear Reed's feet shuffle but he stays in the bathroom diligent in his search, he hopes he can make it before- another scan pops up out of nowhere, programmed brain begging for knowledge of things Nines never wants to know. He pushes them away but they multiply as his panic surges. Wave after wave of information until he can do nothing but look, anything but know, please-

_13 seconds until full shutdown_

A yelp escapes his too tight mouth and he hears Gavin speak without knowing what he said. He opens his own lips, voice modulator trembling, unable to provide sound. 

"G-gavin we have 10-" he whispers every syllable, unhearable to even the most diligent of human ears.

"Gavin p-please" the 7 seconds stare at him, awaiting his next action.

 _6 seconds remaining,_ he fumbles with the cuffing of his sleeve

 _5 seconds remaining,_ his pale skin falls away

 _4 seconds remaining,_ he finds a tube beneath his plastic core

 _3 seconds remaining,_ the thirium leaks out as he pulls

 _2 seconds remaining,_ Connor is the same model

 _1 second remaining,_ he finds the right tube quickly.

 

**March 26th, 2039**

 

 

Most people say that breathing is a laborless act. Every gulp of oxygen given freely, every drop of carbon easy to accept. None of them know what it's like to work for every gasp of air, each in and each out.

 

He knows he's sinking, he can feel the smooth seas of coded water eat his every limb, but he doesn't know how to fight it. Arms flailing beneath ones and zeros, frozen ocean holding onto him, dropping him down, down, down.

Connor is not like them. He breathes even when he's not allowed, he breathes even when it's hard, he breathes even if he can't.

He breathes for him.

He lets the flowers grow.

 

\---

 

The couch beneath him is soft and the pillow silky. His delicate nails dig into the seams of the pillowy faux-leather resting under his porcelain skin. He can feel the warmth of the sun, he can sense the smoothness of the blanket but he can't see. He can't speak. He can't hear. Stuck beneath endless seas, in between two worlds, murmuring 3 words. 

 

"I love him," he wants them to know.

He knows they're both there.

 

**Ma!rch 29t#*h, -203$I9**

 

He lifts his fingers from the bed.

He relishes the few moments he gets to live.

He shifts his open palm left to right.

He breathes even though it's needlessly hard.

 

There are no voices, no sounds, no warmth, no light, no pillow; only the blanket, tight between his crumbling fingers.

He hopes that next time he'll get lucky.

He hopes that next time they're both home.

He hopes he'll get a next time.

 

**M*r &ch 3(&th, 2039**

 

His right eye functions.

It's only one but he's more than grateful.

The IV in his arm drips, blue-blood rushing into his plastic torso, only to disappear beneath his smooth, white skin.

It's painless like everything else, yet somehow he wishes it wasn't.

 

It's mostly dark but the brown leather of the couch is warm with the light of a nearby lamp. He can hear voices in a nearby room, but he can't recognize a word they say. He wants them to know he's okay. He wants them to know he's strong enough to stay above the water. He wants-

He can feel Nines stare.

 

**#7#y39, 2039**

 

Ever since then Nines always stands right in front of him. Patient and silent as he waits for him to wake, careful and loving with each of his looks delicate as he tucks in his blanket ad changes his empty IV. Sometimes Gavin joins him, and sometimes he's happy, sometimes he's sad and sometimes he just stands there, only to look. Today. Connor's not sure how much time has passed but today Nines is so close that his face is in the crook of Connor's neck and his mighty hands are shaking and shaking and shaking his brother's heavy core. His mouth moves, loud, unintelligible, sounds rushing from him and Connor can't help but beg anyone who will listen to let him hear his brother's words.

 

But he can't hear, only speak, so he whispers, tiny, loving, gentle words. Heavy, tired, arms holding and hugging and reassuring a wordless crying man with flaming blue eyes. Connor watches Nines think, watches him cry and calm down. His eyes are light in the bright morning sun, and they gleam when he finds a solution. Then Connor gets a message.

_"Hey big bro"_

The whole universe falls apart.

 

Next to the kind loving words that Nines sent him seconds ago stands a galaxy, a universe of messages.

All from Hank.

 

Sentences upon sentences of sentimentality sent from a desperate man who didn't know how to find him; a man who wasn't given the chance to ask for forgiveness. Counting the sentences, reading the words and comprehending this new reality he falls apart. Hank wrote at least 150 messages every single day, and the thought feels sinfully good. He imagines his calloused fingers tap on the keys of his computer, caress on the screen of his phone, words building on the tip of his aged tongue. So he reads, learning every emotion and desperate try at reconnection, at forgiveness which Connor never knew Hank wanted him to offer.

 

When he reads through every word again and again and again, a million, billion times over and over once more; when he's done Nines is still there, looking at him with understanding behind his eyes. It's not morning anymore, probably more like 2:00 am, too deep in the night to go anywhere, but Nines still gives him a nod and a wide loving grin, saying 

"Go" and letting Connor get up and run.

 

\---

 

His feet are light as clouds as he runs.

Breathing is as easy as knowing Hanks name.

Every biocomponent that struggled to work for minutes now functions as if newly made, yet somehow he can still feel the forget-me-nots writhe.

 

So he stops and he waits until dawn, the block where Hank lives only meters away.

 

**7:89 am**

 

He finds a store and buys some different clothes. 

His connection is broken by flowers so he also purchases a cheap phone. 

It's nice to hear it buzz with each of Hank's messages, but the flowers always pull as it vibrates. They want to go home. They want to go to him.

 

He waits outside of his street, wandering through the park where they often walked Sumo. Pine trees hit by golden sun, new shoes on old pavement long grasses and happy dog owners on their walks.  He moves through the similar streets, chest warm with memories that rattle like marbles in his broken mind. Coming to the house hurts too much so he stays away, watching the breeze comb through the trees that they planted next to Hank's home.

Time passes quickly and soon it's late in the afternoon. The sky turns crimson as the sun sets, hiding behind the grand buildings that flood the Detroit skyline. It shines in Connor's eyes, but he doesn't look away. The wind nips at the skin on his head so Connor pulls at his beenie, covering his red LED. He's the only android in the neighborhood but he wishes he were a ghost instead, only visible to the person he's truly here for.

 

Soon enough his feet find their way to the side of Hank's street and he waits near the red light, making sure he's full of happy thoughts happy thoughts happy thoughts. He can hear a man walk towards him and he knows who it is. The knowledge feels as warm as the sun itself. He looks towards them and Sumo pulls at his leash but Hank doesn't notice... why is he looking at his phone-

A light buzz sounds out in his pocket. 

He chokes on the forget-me-nots.

Seconds remain as Hank's face turns towards his own.

 

His face melts away and he hides behind an awful facade. A panic as deep as a black hole settles inside his lungs. The flowers begin to levitate behind his skin and he tries and tries and tries to speak but they choke him. He watches the perfect, amazing, terrible, awful, grey-haired man turn towards him and screams a most silent scream.

**I.**

**Love.**

**You.**

Hank's eyes are like stars, blinding like the evening sun, and he wants to keep looking, to never let himself look away but the fear is too strong the flowers too loud. The older man looks, he searches but he never finds, and seconds later the flames in his gaze get put out and exchanged for true, dark, pooling disappointment. Connor watches Hank age millennia as his face gets hit with a true loss of hope, that he, himself caused. But he fights, and Connor's face begs, pleads the flora in his lungs to free him and let the man in front of him know-

He can hear them laugh at his hope in his terrible, broken ears.

 

Hank disappears as the light turns green.

Connor dies the moment he does.

 

**April 4th, 2039**

 

...

 

**April 5th, 2039**

 

...

 

**April 6th, 2039**

**April 7th, 2039**

**April 8th,**

**9th**

**10th**

**11th**

 

Connor dies the moment he does.

 

**May 15th, 2039**

 

Connor doesn't return to Nines's home. Connor doesn't come back to the precinct. No, Connor, poor pitiful Connor just stands by the light that had ruined his life.

Hank doesn't even notice.

 

There are passerbies that ask and some that give him confused stares but nobody, no one at all is crazy enough to move the man with death itself in his eyes.

After two weeks Connor feels weeds grown from his mouth. After that a couple more days he sees flowers bloom beneath his too-perfect nails. His face morphs as it pleases and maybe a month after the day flowers ruined his life his true features return. Hank doesn't notice then either; he just walks Sumo each day and ignores that the dog starts to pull every time they reach the intersection.

Messages become rare. 

The older man starts to ignore the buzzing that Connor sometimes produces.

Connor accepts fate.

...

Until he gets tired.

Until he doesn't feel like watching Hank walk by, until he wants to move in and kiss the man, until he breaks the roots that run from his once-new sneakers and into the grasses of a nearby house. Until he rips out every flower that covers his mouth. Until he runs towards Hank's home.

 

\---

 

Winded lungs fight to keep up, meters away from the door that is locked, he weaves past the closed front of the house and races towards a place he knows he'll get in.

Until he's there.

 

Connor stands outside Hank's window, fear running through every man-made vein of his plastic body.  _Will he forgive me? What if he doesn’t?_ He has to know regardless, the forget-me-nots at the base of his thirium pump are going to end him either way. 

 

He gets a running start before tackling his way in through the window, forcing glass to shoot everywhere.

He lands on soft daisies which are sticky with blood.

Hank doesn’t open his eyes.

 

**_& (^&382638*HIM%&8#(3487)*_ **

 

Pain is hard to hide. It pokes its ugly nose in when you don’t ask and it peeks around corners when you don’t notice. It’s like covering an elephant with a blanket or forget-me-nots with a fleece sweater 2@#*693(*567^%# **_COUGH_ ** &(*35#(*&%35 every day, every second it longs to show itself to the world, but you manage to prevent it from showing through even if it hurts you #*&^(#476%^*#&%)74& **_HANK_ ** $(* &$3#&%(498 blue blood is expensive but Connor’s wage covers it comfortably. Wasting water is frowned upon but Connor doesn’t care. Wiping and wiping and wiping and wiping and wiping and wiping until he’s clean, clean, clean #%&*4879(#&% **_CLEAN_ ** )(*$^)^@4893*%#%$9@ he knows he’s glitching he knows it’s not right he knows that he shouldn’t but he does and he doesn’t want to want to want to.

 

**_ERROR_ **

 

He has to be brave.

 

**_ERROR_ **

 

He has to face **_ &(^&382638*HIM%&8#(3487)*_ **

 

**_%*947ERROR*$* &_ **

And he will.

He will.

Just like Nines said.

Just like Simon wanted.

Just as the flowers beg him to-

 **@$^9269##%(*3579*** **_END_ ** ***%#( &*($#**

_“Would you like to go into stasis?”_

**_-YES_ **

\---

**_9:15 pm_ **

Connor’s shoes are white. They are covered in mud and holes. His body is too. His face has rain on it. His hair looks bad. His sweater is blue. It used to be white.

**_$*( &^$36893w5$^*&FLOWERS)&70#)EVERYWHERE&$)$&_ **

He’s running… right this very second. Right towards Hank’s house. To his window. Just like old times. Where he’s probably napping. Just like old times. Just like old times. Just like old times. Just like old times. Just like old times. Just like old times. Just like old times. Just like old times. Just like old times. Just like old times. Just like old times. Just like old times. Just like old times. Just like old times. Just like old times. Just like old times. Just like old times. Just like old times. Just like old times. Just like old times. Just like old times. Just like old times. Just like old times. Just like old times. Just like old times. Just like old times. Just like old times. Just like old times. Just like old times. Just like old times. Just like old times. Just like old times. Just like old times. Just like old times. Just like old times. Just like old times. Just like old times. Just like old times. Just like old times. Just like old times. Just like old times. Just like old times. Just like old times. Just like old times. **Just like old times.**

This resembles a record. His elbow is piercing glass. He is afraid and it feels like drowning.

 

**_%(*^$(*$%45230(%$(^$%*0943939$^)*^)@$)@(#%49387#^_^(*#%8742394%*^($^*(^(*w(^#I0989$*#^*$@3847629346(*^%#(*^543_ **

 

Connor stands outside Hank's window, fear running through every man-made vein of his plastic body. Will he forgive me? What if he doesn’t? He has to know regardless, the forget-me-nots at the base of his thirium pump are going to **end him** either way.

**_%(*^$(*$%45230(%$(^$%*0943939$^)*^)@$)@(#%49387#^_^(*#%8742394%*^($^*(^(* ^#I0989$*#^*$@3847629346(*^%#(*^543 cHEck FoR bReATH$^*)$*^$*)$%Y4y4%(*^$(*$%45230(%$(^$%382437%%@2394%*^($^*(^(*^#I0989$*#^*$@3847629346(*^%#(*^543_ **

 

He gets a running start before tackling his way in through the window, forcing glass to shoot everywhere.

He lands on soft daisies which are **sticky with blood.**

Hank doesn’t open his **eyes.**

 

**_%(*^$(*$%45230(%$(^$%*0943939$^)*^)@$)@(#%49387#^_^(*#%8742394%*^($^*(^(*w(^#I0989$*#^*$@3847629346(*^%#(*^543_ **

 

**_GLASS_ **

 

**_FLOWERS_ **

 

**_BLOOD_ **

 

**_HANK_ **

 

**_MAGGOTS_ **

 

Hank isn’t moving a muscle. Connor isn’t moving a muscle. Connor isn’t moving a-

_“Are you sure you want to initiate manual-shutdown?”_

_-_

_-_

_-_

**_%(*^$(*$%45230(%$(^$%*0943939$^)*^)@$)@(#%49387#^_^(*#%8742394%*^($^*(^(*w(^#I0989$*#^*$@3847629346(*^%#(*^543_ **

“Come on Connor, just this once,” Rust-colored leaves swirl around grey hair. Crinkled blue eyes and a bouncy Bernard. This is heaven. He knows there will be nothing better.

**_%(*^$(*$%45230(%$(^$%*0943939$^)*^)@$)@37*$@3847629346(*^%#(*^543_ **

**_“Are you sure you want to initiate manual shutdown?”_ **

Flowers pierce Hank’s closed eyes, maggots eat away at the flesh of his cheek, his mouth is flung open in a perpetual scream.

This is hell.

**_%(*^$(*$%4523^#$ &$%*0943939$^)*^)@$)@(#%49387#^_^(*#%8742394%*^($^*(^(*w(^#I0989$*#^*$@^(*^)(4030030*&&#(3)($#%*%#03583053809680^*)#*)#^*^9_ **

Hank’s beer bottle seems unimportant when they’re here, in an autumn park, with their beautiful dog. Connor wonders when he got so possessive.

He doesn’t bother thinking about it.

**_%(*^$(*$%45230(%$(^$%*0943939$^)*^)@$)@(#%49387#^_^(*#%8742394%*^($^*(^(*w(^#I0989$*#^*$@3847629346(*^%#(*^543_ **

**_“ARE YOU SURE YOU WANT TO INITIATE MANUAL SHUTDOWN?”_ **

The daisies fall apart on the ceiling leaving holes where they rot, breaking the uniquely beautiful tapestry that was made just for Connor.

He lays beside Hank.

hE JUst WaNTed ForgIVEneSS

**_%(*^$(*$%45230(%$(^$%*0943939$^)*^)@$)@(#%49387#^_^(*#%8742394%*^($^*(^(*w(^#I0989$*#^*$@3847629346(*^%#(*^543_ **

Connor is in love with Hank.

He knows that it's true, a lustrious certainty which overjoys him. It’s what he feels rest so deep in his chest when he looks at him. It’s what burns him as he touches the man. A precious line of code he would defend with his life.

He knows Hank _is_ his life.

There is so much he knows when he’s with him.

. **_%(*^$(*$%45230(%$(^$%*0943939$^)*^)@$)@(#%49387#^_^(*#%8742394%*^($^*(^(*w(^#I0989$*#^*$@3847629346(*^%#(*^543_ **

**_“ARE 6YOU SURE56 YOU WANT & TO* INITIATE MA9NUAL) SHUTDOW6N?”_ **

One of Hank’s eyes lays a little too open, and Connor can’t help but stare into the white abyss that was once pleasant sky-blue. Blood drips onto the mattress, soaking it in cerulean which mixes with crimson as the two colors mingle, only to turn bits of the bed purple. Connor reaches for Hank’s hand. It’s ice cold.

**_%(*^$(*$%45230(%$(^$%*0943939$^)*^)@$)@(#%49387#^_^(*#%8742394%*^($^*(^(*w(^#I0989$*#^*$@* &#38459854897$$**$*6#(#$*#(%83838@$Q$%%_ **

And he knows Hank loves him back.

The looks that they share which may not mean much to most, but mean everything to them both. The touches that aren’t strictly necessary. He’s questioned them for so long yet here he is and it’s crystal clear.

**_$%45230(%$(^$%*0943939$^)*^)@$)@(#%49387#^_^(*#%874_ **

Something dies deep inside his chest as he touches the frozen cold lump of skin.

He’s been gone for a while.

Has he?

Connor doesn’t know and he doesn't have the guts to check.

 

**_%(*^$(*$%45230(^(*#%8742394%*^($^*(^(*w(^#I0989$*#^*$@3847629346*(#%*_ **

 

He’s well aware of how he feels.

And he’s calm.

**_%(*^$(*$%45230(%$(^$%*0943939$^)*^)@$)@(#%49387#^_^(*#%8742394%*^($^*(^(*w(^#I0989$*#^*$@3847629346(*^%#(*^543_ **

**_HE IS CALM_ **

_even as he holds Hank's limp hand, even as he looks in his broken, blind eyes, somehow, through all of this he is calm._

**He is still in love.**

**_*$%45230(%$(^$%*0943939$^)*^)@$)@(#%49387#^_^(*#%874_ **

**-Yes, please initiate manual-shutdown.**

**.SHUTDOWN INITIATED.**

**11%**

**36%**

**78%**

**99%**

**.SHUTDOWN COMPLETE.**

 

**April 19th, 2039**

 

_Creek,_

The door to Hank’s home has been begging for oil for over a year. It will never receive any. Hank’s Saint Bernard has been asking for food for a week. He will starve. Flowers that cover the ceiling will rot, and people who loved each other will fail, and will pay, and will die.

A cautious foot, steps into the house, not a noise can be heard as he walks.

Eyes wide as he takes in the view of an ash grey floor. Rotten piles of flowers, which have died weeks ago. Ceiling and walls covered in dust, which slowly floats to the ground. Everything is so raw, it would bleed if you touched it. Sumo sits hungry by the steps.

The dog barks weakly as he spots the intruder, but is immediately silenced by food being placed on the floor.

Sumo does not rush. The blue eyes man walks past the dog.

No sign of movement, not a touch of life present in the home.

It is dead.

They are dead.

The flowers have won.

Nines knew he'd committed an unforgivable crime even before he walked into the bedroom. His eyes blurred as he opened the door.

A beautiful tree bloomed atop the bed, roots tied to the floor as it stretched along the carpet. Every inch of ground was overtaken by it, yet it sat there proud of its victory and hiding its inconceivable crime. The bed held the horror Nines came to witness, the horror he could have stopped. Hank was a barely recognizable lump of flesh, every bit of him turned into fuel for the greenery this room now contained. His eyes were white and filled to the brim with daisies and his mouth was open, jaw broken by the mass of roots sprouting from deep inside him. He was now fertilizer for the parasite that took his life, yet he didn't look hurt. Instead of being contorted in pain, his face looked at peace yet Nines knew it couldn't truly be so-

**He had committed an unforgivable crime.**

Connor’s chassis was shattered to bits, and what remained of him was entirely blue. Thirium used as power for an organic mass which took what it wanted. He had found them a day too late. He will grieve for them for the rest of his life. Two men intertwined. Two becoming one. They are both dead, yet they look so alive. Daisies and forget-me-nots.

Nines lets out an inaudible sob too weak to escape his man-made lungs and leaves the crooked sight of them right then and there.

He's too weak to call the police.

He's arrested for that two months after they're found.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, first of all, I started this shit like 2 months ago and it's finally done. I wrote everything in one go and didn't really check it so it might be a hot mess but I'm really happy that it's finally done. ANYWAYS this fic is so old that I'm pretty sure nobody gives a shit anymore so yeah, whoops lol. 
> 
> Also, this is still my favorite fanfic (I'm gonna re-read it to see if that statement is still true) and D:BH is still my favorite fandom  
> Btw I'm most likely going to give it a happy ending but make it another fic altogether (yes this has somehow become a series)


End file.
